“It’s work to be the only person of color in an organization, bearing the weight of all your white co-workers’ questions about Blackness.

“It’s work to always be hypervisible because of your skin — easily identified as being present or absent — but for your needs to be completely invisible to those around you.

“It’s work to do the emotional labor of pointing out problematic racist thinking, policies, action and statements while desperately trying to avoid bitterness and cynicism.

“Quite frankly, the work isn’t just tedious. It can be dangerous for Black women to attempt to carve out space for themselves — their perspective, their gifts, their skills, their education, their experiences — in places that haven’t examined the prevailing assumption of white culture. The danger of letting whiteness walk off with our joy, our peace, our sense of dignity and self-love, is ever present. As a black woman working in white spaces, my perception of racial dynamics has been questioned, minimized, or denied altogether.”

These words are from Austin Channing Brown’s new book, “I'm Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness,” released this week.

They’re words are about the black experience in America — about “being calm in a world made for whiteness”; where “half-baked efforts at diversity are enough because the status quo is fine.”

But lest readers think this book is about condemning white people, it’s about surviving in a world not made for a woman of color. “It’s about standing before roomfuls of Christians and challenging them to see Blackness without the baggage of racist bias,” Channing Brown writes.

We talked with the former Chicago resident, North Park University alumna and former staffer with faith-based service organization DOOR about what she hopes readers will take from the book.

The following conversation has been edited for space and clarity.

Q: Is this book a lesson for the white population, or is it an affirmation to the black community?

A: I really, at the forefront of my mind, had black women reading this book. I really want black women to feel seen; I want black women to feel heard. I feel like there are a lot of books out there on the black male experience, but they really made me think about those of us who have a different experience, those of us who didn’t grow up in the ’hood, those of us who have always been around white spaces, and I really wanted to uplift that story because we so often feel alone and isolated because there is only a handful of us where we work or worship or volunteer. So I just wanted to write a book that said: I see you. And I affirm what you’re experiencing. You are not alone.

Q: “Let’s start a conversation” has become the new catchphrase on race. But what’s the truth of the matter?

A: I agree. The truth lies in being honest about the system and the structure that we are in. Why is it every time I speak and say something, someone at the table feels the need to translate what I’m saying before people can appreciate it? That’s the truth. If we’re going to sit around and talk about race, that’s what I need us to talk about. I need for us to talk about how inappropriate it is for white folks to think that they can touch me or my hair. That’s the truth. The things that really impact our lives, our emotions, that impact whether or not you and I can go to work and just have a “normal” day. It is so frustrating.

Q: How did the book unfold when writing it?

A: I knew I was going to start with the story of my name because it was the first time I realized what race means in America. I knew I was a little black girl, but I didn’t know what that meant until that moment (in the first chapter). I wanted to show that I didn’t just go to sleep one day and wake up the next as an activist and advocate for black lives — this was a journey. This has been a journey even for me, and it’s a journey for all of us.

Q: Is the book’s goal to kick-start folks’ activism?

A: Honestly, I think this book is probably not for folks who are just beginning their journey on racial justice. I did write this book for people who are already committed to racial justice, to whom I wanted to say here’s where we still have some improvements to be made. So stop patting yourselves on the back for having a black woman on staff, stop being proud of yourself for having a whole 20 percent people of color — you need to move on. Like good, I’m glad you started, I’m glad you’re committed, but we’ve got to keep going. So I was trying to paint a picture of what it might look like to keep going without being prescriptive.

Q: In the book you say you don’t think you or your grandchildren will see racial equality in their lifetimes. Where can one find hope?

A: I do find hope in change. I’m really encouraged by the advocacy efforts, particularly around mass incarceration right now and changing laws related to the criminal justice system, so there are definitely places where I am still hopeful that we will see change. I just think the elimination of racism just feels really big; I don’t know if in a couple or few generations we’ll manage that, but I’m definitely still hopeful, supporting and cheering on real changes toward that end, and I hope to raise my son to be a part of that change too — whether he gets to partake of the fullness of it or not. I hope that he will fall in love with the work, the same way I have.

Columnist John Warner offers his picks for great reads of the year — so far — including "The Italian Teacher" by Tom Rachman, "Bad Blood" by John Carreyrou, "The Overstory" by Richard Powers, "Sunburn" by Laura Lippman, "Red Clocks" by Leni Zumas, and "Just the Funny Parts" by Nell Scovell.